The Sacrifice
by Orion's Star
Summary: Harry has to face his sixth year amongst death, destruction and nightmares he can't even remember. Ron takes a risk for him, a risk no friend should have to take. But he'll live, as long as Harry doesn't betray his trust... RH, slight HG
1. Default Chapter

The Sacrifice

A Harry Potter fanfiction

By Anna Muehlenhaupt

Disclaimer: the author does not own nor claim to own any of the following characters or places. All characters, places, and previously established storylines are copyright Joann Kathleen Rowling, and copyright Warner Brothers Studio.

Author's Note: I don't pretend to be this amazing author. This is pretty much the compilation of the extent of my writing talent, but I hope you like it anyway. This is dedicated to Libby, Rita, and Gus, who were the first to read it in its ratty old journal, Alex, my first beta, and Whitney, who kept bothering me to finish it. It's also dedicated to Adrian, who was my beta reader for all of it, and was pretty much the awesomest thing ever. Thank you all. To Rita: you ain't seen nothin' yet!

Prologue

Molly Weasley walked quickly along the dark, cobblestone street, clutching the paper bag to her chest with one hand and holding the small wrist of her oldest son, a boy of barely four, with the other. He was holding the hand of a barely walking two year old boy, which happened to be her other son. Shadows had crept out onto the stones in the road, stretching like gnarled fingers toward some dying soul, pulling it into the depths of Hell. Shadows had always frightened her. She knew this was no time of night to be out, what with the masked murderers, who called themselves Death Eaters, roaming the streets, just looking for someone to kill. Her heart pounded in her ears. She wished desperately that her husband had gotten the car fixed, or that rugs were still legal. She couldn't take both of her children on a broom, unless it had baskets or rear seating, and her husband didn't think they were at all safe. But, she thought, just about anything is safer than walking down an empty street these days. She held her son's grubby hand tighter in hers, and pressed the bag closer to her chest, feeling the celery against her fingers through the thick, brown paper and prayed that the sun would come soon, and she would have more light than the fragile sliver of a moon, which vainly tried to throw some light from its cage in the dark night sky.

A quiet scratch of heavy boots on cobblestone caught her attention. Curious, she almost turned to see where it had come from. A terrified thought came over her suddenly; what if it was one of them? A ragged, raspy voice whispered, "Alohomora," and she stopped breathing. A door creaked open in the dark, then shut with a click. She searched the house in the direction of the sounds, but saw no evil signs. Her eyes crept up the house's yellow trim with the ivy, coming to the one, lit window in the house. Cheerful orange played out onto the street below, and laughter was slightly audible from the bright room. She stepped toward the bright window, shaking, then drew back. She felt helpless; hopeless. She turned away, dreading to see the happy lights flicker and die.

"Mummy," the oldest boy, Bill, pulled on the sleeve of her robe, then shoved his orange hair behind his small, freckled ears with round fingers, "we have to go home. Daddy'll be home soon." Her children. She held the boy's hand tightly in her own and watched the window intently. A dark silhouette appeared in the window, and screams came from the small room. A flash of green, the bright light extinguished. The paper bags dropped onto the cobbled street, their contents spilling over the deep greys and blacks. Molly grabbed her boys and ran behind an old, gnarled tree. A green mist crept along her ankles and legs, trying to swallow her into the deep void of death. She shut her eyes tightly, loosening her grip on her older son, and hoped that she wouldn't hear what she knew what was next.

"That was too easy," a man sniggered. "_Morsmodre!"_

She opened her eyes when she felt Bill leave. He was peering around the trunk of the old tree, his back to her. She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back. He landed with a thump on her lap.

"Look, Mummy!" He said happily, "They know it's my birthday. They drew me a picture. Look!" He pointed to a green skull hovering in the sky.

Chapter 1 - The Haunting Dreams

Ron, I'm worried about Harry. He hardly responds to his owls. Usually just a few sentences. I know this whole... thing... has been tearing him apart... I just wish there were something we could do. Have you gotten any information about... the Quidditch Team, from... the gang? You know. I hope Dumbledore lets him visit you. He needs something to take his mind away from all of what happened.

Love,

Hermione

"Although wizards knew the nature of the five elemental powers for centuries, they did not attempt to harness the power until early 600 A.D."

Harry stifled a yawn, trying not to wake the Dursleys, who were not on good terms with him at the moment. Uncle Vernon was much less than pleased that he had not been able to keep Harry out of the house and was even more suspicious of the sight of Moody at King's Cross, but did not say anything about either, hoping not to displease Harry enough to make him write to any of the Order. Aunt Petunia had finally given up hiding in Harry's old cupboard and had resorted to sneaking into each room with a cricket bat gripped tightly in both hands. She had mistaken every person in the house for Voldemort at least once, and had repeatedly believed Harry a magical killer at first glance. Uncle Vernon was convinced Privet Drive was a much safer place for Harry and asked frequently how soon Harry could return to Hogwarts and if possibly he could be sent back for the remainder of summer holiday. Harry's strange dreams had not helped.

Harry now spent as much time outside as possible, climbing the trellis in the back garden to the roof with his books and wearing his invisibility cloak. Dudley had been sent a few days earlier (on Harry's birthday, to be exact) to a prestigious boxing camp, and while Uncle Vernon couldn't be prouder, Aunt Petunia now cried whenever a meal was served. Though she continued to keep Harry on Dudley's grapefruit diet, Harry looked a good deal healthier. His skin was no longer pale, but was almost beginning to develop a humanly shade of pink to his skin, even through the invisibility cloak, and he was living again off the current year's birthday cakes. Aunt Petunia seemed to understand his emotional state, however, and seemed almost civilized. However, he had noticed very little of this. He spent most of his time staring blankly at walls, trees, or anything that stood still. He thought of trivial things, such as the shape of his glasses, or the laces of his trainers. He liked those thoughts. They drove away the pain that tore at his stomach just before he went to sleep. He was mostly afraid of the dark, and constantly heard small noises around the front door. He was afraid of returning to Hogwarts as well, but not for his safety. It had been his only home, and everything had suddenly changed. He only wished everything would be the way it was before. But it never would be.

Harry yawned again and closed his Advanced History of Charms book in the flattened roll of parchment that held his half written essay, hoping the ink had dried, and slid it under his bed. He needed sleep; Mr. Weasley was coming the next day with a Portkey and it would take quite a bit of talking to the Dursleys about it, especially if Mr. Weasley didn't remember the layout of the house. He turned onto his back, set his glasses on the nightstand, and fell asleep.

__

He was sitting in a cemetery. He knew by the headstones illuminated in some green light coming from far away. They stood in the dark clearing, spaced apart, revealing the emptiness of the cemetery, like a group of crazed monks on the floor of Hell, clawed hands clutching the wilting flowers left to remember the dead. He had no shirt, and his pants were soaked in blood and ripped around his knees. Rain pelted down on him. Except it wasn't rain. Deep crimson stained his pale skin. The deep red clouds let no light in, but the eerie green glow was becoming more defined on the cold stones. It was coming closer. The green fingers crept along the red ground, slipping between the still monks and their dying flowers. His heart caught in his throat as a strangling fear consumed him. He didn't want it to come closer. He had to get away. The wind sliced through the grass, whispering, "Rip you... tear you... kill you..." He tried to get up, but his legs hurt too much. The light advanced, its sinister mind reaching out, trying to twist his own, playing around his ears, echoing in his head, clouding his thoughts. He pushed the ground with his bleeding feet and tore at the grass with his hands, trying desperately to get away. The gravestones loomed in front of him, and sealed his way out. He screamed at them, and pounded his hands against the stone. His hands began to bleed, and vines crept around his wrists, cutting into his skin. He tore at them, trying to stop them, in vain. They coiled around his arms and pulled him to the cold rock. He tried to scream, and the vine snaked into his throat. His arm began to bleed, slowly at first, then poured down onto his fingers. The searing, burning pain began, travelling down his spine, along his arms and in his chest. Flames scratched at his eyes. He could see nothing. And he couldn't get away...

Aunt Petunia woke up to the somewhat familiar screams. She hurried out of bed and wondered how even after Harry's first two years with them, even after this entire summer, how those screams could still terrify her. She rushed into the room and took in the scene: Harry was sitting straight up, his back rigid, almost arched, as if he were in physical pain. His eyes were rolled back in his head, but the whites of his eyes were clearly visible from his wide-open eyelids. He stared through her with those vacant white eyes and shrieked, "NO! I won't! You killed my parents!" His scar had begun to bleed. The red stained his white skin and ran into his mouth. Petunia sat on the bed and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "Shut up!" she whispered furiously. "Shut up!"

His mouth closed, and his eyes blinked, then fluttered, and the green irises returned to their proper place. His eyes closed, and his dark eyelashes became wet with tears. He began to shake violently, and tears ran down his face, making white lines in the blood that lay there. Aunt Petunia loosened her grip on his shoulders, and he collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. She stroked his dark, tangled hair, and a strange, almost maternal feeling came over her. She looked back at Vernon, who was leaning on the doorframe, watching with a mixture of concern and the ever-prominent suspicion and disgust. She smiled weakly, and he, approving of the situation, tromped back into the master bedroom.

Petunia stayed there, watching the crying boy, until his breathing changed from ragged to calm, and his tears ceased. She lay him back on his pillow, brushing the tears and remains of blood from his skin. Her fingers brushed his scar and she shivered. She had read what had happened in that letter so many years ago. Even with an unbiased formality, the undeniable truths were terrifying. She wondered briefly, what it would have been like if Lily had survived. Her vision became blurry, and she blinked furiously, scolding herself for giving in. She kissed her fingers and put them to the jagged scar. He would not remember the nightmare in the morning. He never did.


	2. 2

Chapter 2 - The Dentists' Office

Moody -

It's been two days, but I'm fine. The relatives are pretty much leaving me alone.

Harry

Harry woke to the sunrise of a dreamless sleep and the faint feeling of terror in the back of his ribcage. He'd had another nightmare. He didn't remember anything...except the green mist. His head hurt, and his body felt like he'd been running all night. He felt the blood caked onto his cheeks. He knew he'd had a number of nightmares that summer, each worse than the last, and he was starting to remember the horrors in the back of his mind. Although the nightmares were similar to the year before, he didn't think that they meant Lord Voldemort was trying to pry into his mind. It just didn't feel the same. As his motor skills improved and his body woke up, his mind seemed to as well, and he felt that panicked hopelessness creep into him. He hated that feeling, more than the rage, more than the fear, more than anything. His closed eyes bore an image of the looming tombstones. He opened them quickly, but the image was not so easily lost. Though faded, it stayed close enough to his line of vision to haunt him.

Harry pushed the covers off and got shakily to his feet. He stumbled blindly around his room, taking his nightshirt off and feeling in his dresser for another shirt. He found one, which looked like it was a greenish colour, and put it on. He'd taken several Galleons at the beginning of summer from his Gringott's bank and exchanged it for Muggle money, buying himself clothes that actually fit him. It was a nice feeling, to have his own clothes. He found a pair of jeans and pulled them over his boxers, then returned to the nightstand and snatched his glasses. He shoved them on, and the room suddenly filled with defined objects and solid lines. Harry suddenly realised he had quite a bit of packing left to do. He looked longingly at the wand on his nightstand, but resisted the urge, stepping toward his dresser and the open trunk underneath it. He began pulling socks, trousers, and any other clothing left in the drawers and dropping them half-heartedly into his trunk. He paused for a moment at his still nondescript letters, but he was too tired to be mad anymore. He sighed, and remembered how he had pieced together the hints in the several letters he had received to figure out that Mr. Weasley was coming to pick him up. "August 3rd, what a good day for a picnic." "Oh, the summer's so hot, not really weather for having a fire, if I could only find my keys..."

Aunt Petunia's voice shouted at him to come for breakfast. Hopping on first one foot and then the other, Harry successfully managed to put on both of his socks while jumping down the short hallway. He tramped down the stairs and walked into the kitchen. A grapefruit quarter waited impatiently at his place. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon ignored him, and continued discussing Aunt Marge's next visit; a fun filled Christmas Harry couldn't wait to miss.

In the next second, two things happened simultaneously. A horn sounded from the driveway, announcing Dudley's return, and a thump from above told of the much less welcome arrival of Mr. Weasley. Aunt Petunia shrieked and ran to the door, where she desperately tried to block the view of the inside of the house from the driveway with her body.

Harry, forgetting his breakfast, raced up the stairs. He flung open the door to his room, barely missing Mr. Weasley, who looked around cheerfully and greeted him with a "Hullo, Harry!" His voice suddenly softened with his eyes, and he said quietly, "How are you? I mean... how are you holding up?"

"What, no cavalry to come and escort me this year?" Harry successfully attempted a smile.

Mr. Weasley, looking concerned but relieved, smiled back. "Well, I hope you've everything packed; we're going to make a quick stop at Hermione's, and then it's to the Burrow. Are you ready?"

Harry grabbed his wand from the nightstand and the books under his bed and shoved them into the open trunk, closed it with a snap of the locks, and touched the rubber chicken Mr. Weasley was holding out to him. The familiar pull of the Portkey brought him dizzy and stumbling into the whitest room he'd ever been in.

The look and the smell strangely reminded him of getting his cavities filled. From the walls to the floor and all that was in between, everything in the room was white, excluding a photo of a Parisian sunset, the dark cherry wood bookshelf it hung above, and the cherry table that the bookshelf matched. Afraid to touch anything, Harry stood with a rigid back, keeping his trunk and Mr. Weasley close to him. However, at that moment Mr. and Mrs. Granger both walked in, and Mr. Weasley left Harry to fend for himself in the pristine house as he stepped across the room to greet both of them. They shook hands with the beaming Mr. Weasley, and Mrs. Granger, a tall woman with perfect teeth and hair that curled softly around her neck, looked at Harry, saying, "She's in her room upstairs. Second door on the left."

Harry tiptoed up the stairs, trying not to disrupt the threads of the carpet. He heard Mr. Weasley and whom he assumed to be Mr. Granger laughing behind him. The large hallway at the top of the stairs was as white as the rest of the house, with a photograph of the African savannah hanging between the first two doors on the left. Not thinking to knock, he turned the silver doorknob and walked in. The room was, again, a pristine white and deep cherry. Two tall, thin bookshelves stood against adjacent walls, full of both textbooks and fictional novels, which Harry would never have guessed Hermione read. She herself was standing in a small camisole tank top, at a dresser also of cherry wood, pulling a shirt out of an open drawer. She looked up at the sound of the open door and glared, somewhat annoyed, at him.

"Harry, do you mind? I'm half dressed."

He glared back mockingly, then laughed. "Hermione, I've seen you in swimsuits that revealed more, and besides, we're best friends; what does it matter?"

She laughed as well. "All right, then. Just sit over there, I'm almost ready." She waved her hand toward the white bed with silver knobs. He dawdled to the bed and sat down, watching Hermione, who was standing at an oval mirror hanging above her dresser. It had several bottles, tubes, and disks of every size, most of which were still sealed in plastic casing. She suddenly looked at them and began peeling the plastic off each one, then setting them in the exact places that she had them before.

"Hermione," Harry spoke up, concerned, "What are you... _doing?_"

"What?" She turned around to look at him. "Oh, these? Well... my mum bought them all for me right when I got home. She seems to think that I'm not, well, enough of a teenage girl, I suppose. Anyway, there's no way I would use any of this, but I can't let her know that I haven't even opened them." She began throwing the little bits of plastic into her trunk, then picked up a purple bottle and squeezed some gel into her hands. "This, though, I may as well use. Don't think me shallow, Harry, but it almost makes life easier."

She ran it through her tangle of curls and pulled at the ends of her hair, then scrunched it back up again. He looked on, a bit confused. Hermione's hair hadn't changed a bit, but he didn't want to be unsupportive.

"So," he tried to start conversation as she began shoving the tubes and bottles into her trunk, "Have you talked to Krum?"

"Not in a good way," she sighed. "He was just so... oh, I don't know. Viktor's nice and all, but he's much too agreeable. We still talk occasionally, but we've decided to just be friends."

"Are you going to tell Ron?" Harry said, sensing a possible catastrophe.

Hermione giggled. "Now, where would be the fun in that?" He looked up at her quickly in surprise, and she smiled, a mischievous light shining in her eyes. She threw the top of her trunk shut, locked it, and began dragging it toward the door, motioning for Harry to follow. He helped her and her trunk down the stairs and into the living room, Hermione chattering excitedly about how much she'd done on her wormwood essay. Hermione's parents both leaned into say a tearful goodbye to her, and she left them with a whoosh, a step into the fireplace, and a shout of "the Burrow!" Harry followed, stepping forward heavily but keeping his balance as he fell out of the Weasleys' fireplace.


	3. 3

Chapter 3 - Growing Pains

It keeps growing inside me, this feeling that I cannot control my actions. Like a virus. But it hasn't gotten me yet. I wonder if he has something to do with this. I think my family is beginning to suspect. As long as they don't find out why I'm really going... Although even I don't know that. It hasn't gotten me yet.

Harry fell through the fireplace and straightened back up in the Weasleys' living room. Hermione and a taller, older Ginny were standing over Hermione's luggage, laughing happily. Ginny turned to look at Harry and went quiet. "How are you, Harry?" She asked, pausing hesitantly. "I mean, since... you know."

"I'm fine," Harry answered a bit abruptly.

"I'll take your things up to Ron's room," she said, giving him a brief smile. "Ron's in the kitchen on potato duty." She and Hermione started dragging luggage toward the stairs.

Harry walked into the kitchen. Ron was standing over a large pot, a potato peeler in one hand and half of a badly peeled potato in the other. He was tapping a bare foot onto the tile floor softly and singing, "... if you still care at all, don't go tell me now..." He had also changed -- he no longer fit the description "gangly", but now lingered near the line of "thin." He had also tanned under his freckles, which were even present on his elbowsand feet.

Ron looked up and curled up a corner of his lip, groaning, "I hate peeling potatoes." Harry smiled, and moved over to his friend, picking up an extra peeler from the countertop. He glanced out the window to see a rapidly moving Quidditch game with more players than was usual for the Weasley house to carry. He looked out the window again and saw a familiar person playing Keeper in front of a few hula-hoops tied to trees. He squinted, then turned back to Ron.

"Is Oliver here?"

Ron grinned. "Oh, yeah. Fred and George are convinced I'm to be Keeper again, so they called in a 'professional.' I'm not sure how good all the practice has done me, but it's wicked having him here. And besides, Bill and Charlie are here for the summer. And Bill's got a girlfriend! Nobody knows who it is, but he says we'll meet her soon." He shrugged and said, "So, how's your summer been?"

"I've been having-" Harry stopped, pondering whether or not to tell Ron about his nightmares. He could imagine the uproar it would cause, and since he never remembered much of them, it would be pointless anyway. "- a better time than usual, as Dudley was off at boxing camp for half of it."

Ron sniggered. "Surprised he wasn't the only one to fit into the place! How many kitchens does this camp have?" They both laughed, and Ron threw the last potato into the pot of water. "That's it, I'm giving up. What do you say we go out and play?"

Harry agreed, and the two stomped up the stairs to get brooms. Ron swung the door to his slightly de-oranged room open to the sight of two girls sitting on his bed, chatting happily, with an array of makeshift camp beds and mattresses strewn across the floor.

"What are you doing in here!" Ron cried indignantly. The girls looked up, obviously annoyed, and Hermione said, "Nice to see you too, Ron. Yes, thank you, I've had a lovely summer."

"I'll bet," Ron muttered, but dropped the subject with an elbow in the back from Harry. He rolled his eyes and put on a sarcastic smile. "Hi, Hermione, how are you? And Ginny," he glared, "why have you invaded my room?"

"Well," Ginny shot back, "there are no other rooms. Everyone else is bunked together, nobody's touched Percy's room, so Mum told us to sleep in here. Deal."

Ron heaved a largely ceremonial sigh and said, "Fine, you can stay in my room. But no making it girly or anything. Alright?"

"Oh, Harry, how many O.W.L.s did you get?" Hermione looked up at him.

"Erm... six," Harry said, remembering the large Ministry owl that had swooped in to the kitchen during Dudley's tearful goodbye.

"Excellent. I got seven," Ron sighed. "And I'm prefect again." He made a face. "Hermione's got ten, of course." Hermione glared at him. Harry felt strange that he didn't care about Ron being prefect, or that he'd gotten more O.W.L.s.

Ron rolled his eyes, then opened his closet door. A shirt that had come off its hanger and several mothballs fell out, but Ron kicked them out of the way, grabbing a broom from inside the closet and closed the door. Harry took his from his baggage and they left toward the garden. They stopped at the first floor. There was complete silence through the house, which was highly unusual. Ron and Harry crept into the front room. Percy Weasley was standing in the doorway with a suitcase that matched the expensive black of his robes, looking straight into the face of his glaring father.

"Father," he said, "I have reviewed the information of the case of Albus Dumbledore, and have concluded that your loyalties, whilst defying the Ministry, did not prove treacherous. I therefore have accepted my mother's generous apology and offer to return home for holiday."

Mr. Weasley's head snapped toward Mrs. Weasley, who was peeking uncharacteristically timidly from around the door to the kitchen. "If _she'll_ have you, since this is her house as well, then I suppose that you may stay. But you are no son of mine." He turned on his heel and stomped past Ron and Harry. They moved quickly into the kitchen as Mrs. Weasley walked hesitantly toward Percy.

Ron stared at Harry through wide eyes. "Percy's come home!" he whispered, and Harry nodded, listening to the sound of Percy moving his luggage upstairs. Suddenly, a booming knock came at the door. Harry looked past the kitchen and saw Mrs. Weasley open it and look out on Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"May I talk to you outside?" he said, and she nodded, stepping out and shutting the door.

"The Order, as usual," Ron said from behind him. "They've been doing that all summer. Tonks usually stays a few days, as does Lupin, and Bill and Charlie most of the summer, but that's a given. Most of them only stay for a minute or two. Anyway, Fred and George are never here long enough to listen in with Extendable Ears, because of the joke shop. So we haven't been able to get any news at all, except the attacks that are starting to happen. But everybody knows about that." Harry nodded. He'd read them in the Daily Prophet. He sighed. Everything was different now...

Harry yawned and rolled over onto the grass, leaving his books resting by themselves. He gazed just above the line of the sun as it set over the green hill. Ron shifted his weight against the old oak tree. "Harry," he groaned, "do you get this DADA homework? What's this about these elements?"

Hermione sighed. "Ronald, if you spent half as much time reading as you did throwing a ball on a broom, you'd probably get it." He glared at her, and she returned the look. "All right, here's the basic idea: The four elemental powers are earth, wind, water, and fire. The powers are controlled by the nature of a human being, but only someone pure of heart can receive the gift of life from them. At one point, they were free to roam the world and lived in harmony with humans. However, as the population of the earth grew, the elements fed off different human characteristics and became very unbalanced. Around 600 BC, a powerful wizard by the name of Maximus Brankovich III harnessed the power into the four elemental charms. Now the elements run by neutral emotion, because they have no owner or 'feeder'. They cannot help as they once did, but instead follow a steady pattern that helps keep the world working the way it does. Get it?"

Ron stared blankly at her for a little while. "Wait," he said, "So anyone can get these powers? Why isn't the world blown to bits already?"

"No," Hermione answered, exasperated, "only a really powerful wizard of pure heart can bestow them upon people. And the people who receive them also have to be pure. Evil can't directly touch them, but the powers can use evil energy for their own gain."

"Hmm..." Harry put his arm over his eyes and smelled the coming autumn. He loved life at the Weasleys'. Even doing homework was fun. In the distance, the sound of pots clashing and tables being moved flitted in the sunset between the fireflies. His stomach told him it as almost time for supper, but he ignored it, to hold onto the moment with his friends under the oak tree. His past year had reminded him of just how quickly he could lose the opportunity to live such moments. He kept his eyes open as much as possible to avoid the memory of his parents, Cedric, Sirius... He rolled onto his stomach again and pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands. Oliver was walking up the hill toward them. He reached the top and crouched beside Ron.

"Who's ready for a lesson before supper?" He said enthusiastically. Ron groaned and shut his book. "I'm only joking. It's too late. Food's on the table!"

Everyone gathered their books and trudged back toward the house in the approaching twilight. Harry looked beyond his friends and saw the two outdoor tables set with candles and plates of food. Mrs. Weasley was hurrying around, bringing trays of even more food outside and yelling for Percy to come down. A deep, almost black flame flickered desolately in Percy's upstairs window. Presently, it was blown out, and Percy emerged from the rickety house.

Oliver had just opened the small garden gate when Bill and Charlie came barreling out the front door and raced to two seats at the table. There they began speaking excitedly about Quidditch. Oliver joined them. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny sat at the far end of the table. Ron put his head on the table, thankful the plates weren't in their places yet. Harry watched as Hermione glanced at Ron, and for a second her gaze softened. Percy was on Ron's right, as far as possible from Mr. Weasley. He often avoided Harry or looked suspiciously at him. He tapped his fingers against the table skittishly, but did not show any other signs of life. Fred and George were talking animatedly to each other, making overly large and abundant hand movements and trying to get across to their parents the benefit in investing money into their joke shop.

The plates were circling the table now, and Ron picked his head up to eat. He reached around Harry and pushed Percy's shoulder, grumbling, "When are you going to tell us why you're riding the Hogwarts train this year?"

Percy glared through his hollowed eyes at Ron. "I'll tell you when I'm ready. Besides," he added with a bit of his old pompous air, "what business is it of yours why I go to Hogwarts?"

"Aha!" Ron exclaimed. "So you are going to the school, then! What for?"

"We'll see," said Percy, with the annoying know-it-all sound in his voice. Ron sighed and started eating.


	4. 4

Chapter 4 - The Trouble With Punching a Malfoy

Crabbe-

I am Malfoy. I am writing to you. My summer was good. How was your summer? Can you read this? I hope so. I am using small words so you can read this. Words are the things on this page. They are the things you are reading. "Word" is even a word. "Evil" is a word. Are you wearing your READING glasses? I hope you are. I have to go now. Goodbye.

Malfoy

Harry groaned as a hand pushed his shoulder. "Harry, wake up," Hermione's groggy voice reached his ears. She took her hand off his shoulder,and he opened his eyes. Stationary blurs of orange, white, and deep blue were broken by moving blurs of black, bluish, and yellow. Somewhere to his right, Ron mumbled a weak protest to Hermione's whispered demand. Harry groped for his glasses and found them on the wood panelled floor. He shoved them onto his face; suddenly, the blurs defined, and he distinguish the yellow to be the colour of Ginny's shirt and the lavender of Hermione's pyjamas against the orange, black and white of Ron's room. The deep blue of the sky had lost its scattering of stars and had faded in the East, a sign of the impending morning. Harry pushed the covers off him and sat up. Downstairs the symphony of clanging pots and pans sang to him of breakfast, and the smell of bacon reached his nose. He stood and pulled a shirt over his head. Around him, Ron and Hermione were also getting dressed. Ginny was apparently wandering aimlessly, picking various items up and then setting them down in different places, with no attention to order or organization. A loud fist banged on the door, followed by a series of thumping feet down several flights of stairs.

Once dressed, Harry followed Ron and Hermione downstairs and into the kitchen, where food was waiting impatiently for them. Every person in the room chose that exact moment to lunge for the chairs. Harry managed to sit with Ron on one side, Charlie on the other. Oliver immediately began hassling Ron about eating early so they could get one last practice in before they had to leave for the train. The past week had been a hectic one, with not one but two trips to Diagon Alley, because Ron had forgotten several of the books he was supposed to buy. Arthur had come home stressed and tired for the last three nights in a row due to increasing exploding teakettles. It had taken a week for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department to track down the original suppliers, who then had their powers restricted for an entire month, a tricky business with more paperwork than it was worth.

Ron shovelled down his food and ran outside with Oliver, eager for one last practise opportunity.

"Ronald Weasley, you haven't packed! What do you think you're doing? And it's pouring outside!" Molly yelled after him, but the demand fell on deaf ears as Ron and Oliver banged down the hallway and out the back door.

At 9:45, no less than seventeen suitcases were stacked at the front door to the Burrow. Rain, which had only accumulated in the last 20 minutes, pelted the windows with a vengeance. Ron was running around looking for umbrellas while Ginny had been appointed the task of checking all the windows. Mr. Weasley was standing near the kitchen table, shaking his head and murmuring his surprise at the sudden onset of rain.

"Mum!" Ron hollered from the hallway. "Mum, I found the brollies!"

"Well, bring them out to the front room then, will you?" she bellowed back, then shook her head. "That boy, can't ever do anything without yelling his head off," she sighed in a kind yet scolding voice, as if she were complaining to Harry. He nodded uncertainly.

Ron burst out of the hall closet covered in dust, triumphantly clutching four mismatched umbrellas to his grey-blue shirt. A flurry of dust bunnies and mothballs scattered underneath his feet, which he promptly kicked back into the closet and slammed the door. He staggered and had barely regained his footing when Hermione and Ginny brushed past. Hermione threw his raincoat over his umbrella-laden arms and tossed Harry's over his shoulder. Mrs. Weasley grabbed one of Ron's two remaining umbrellas and called, "We ready, then?" Oliver and Charlie (Bill had left earlier that week to visit his girlfriend in France before returning to Egypt for work) thundered down the stairs, each holding their own umbrellas. Fred and George had gone back to Diagon Alley a few weeks earlier. Percy appeared with a loud crack between Harry and Oliver; he was calm, wearing plain, draping black robes and holding a stately black umbrella to match. Harry decided Percy was either the most professional he had ever looked or the most morbid.

Together, dragging their luggage, they stepped out the door into the pouring rain. Every umbrella opened in unison. Harry quickly found refuge under Oliver's large umbrella. The moment Ron had opened his, he realized there was a large hole in it. Hermione had not seen this until too late, as she had tried to share Ron's umbrella.

"Oh," she cried, as a torrent of rain attacked her. Ron unzipped his jacket and held his arm up to shelter Hermione. She huddled underneath, colour rising slightly in her cheeks. His ears turned red as well, and he tossed the useless umbrella aside. They all reached the taxis and hurried inside, luggage and all. The taxi driver transporting Harry was particularly ruffled about Hedwig; he told Harry in a thick cockney accent that he'd had bad experience with large predator birds. Harry apologized and assured the driver that Hedwig would remain in her cage.

"All the same, she scares me," He glanced at her nervously.

"Would you feel better if I put my jacket over her?" Harry offered.

"Well…. Yeah, alright."

The drive over was mostly silent. Hermione, the only truly dry person in the car, was wedged between Ginny, who was almost comatose from her last night homework, and Percy, who glanced around the cab suspiciously the entire ride and leaned precariously on his dark umbrella with one hand. The taxi crept along the crowded streets, past Harrods and Camden Town, making Harry a little suspicious of the man's direction. They finally reached King's Cross and began the mad struggle for their luggage. The large clock above them read 10:50. Once the luggage was out and onto the trolleys, they ran toward the platforms.

Mrs. Weasley tried desperately to give each of her children last goodbye kisses, but she only reached Percy, Ginny, and Harry twice. They each sprinted through the barrier and loaded onto the train. Ron, Harry and Hermione loaded their luggage into the luggage car and shoved their way onto the crowded train just two minutes before the train left. Harry peered into the first compartment, looking for an empty place where he, Ron, and Hermione could sit. Dennis and Colin waved to him cheerfully, and he got his head out of the compartment just in time to miss the snap of Colin's camera.

"Oi! Over here!" Ron shouted, waving his hand to Harry and sticking his foot in the door of an empty compartment. Harry and Hermione began to push their way through. Harry was all the way to Ron when he realised Hermione wasn't with him. He turned around and saw Hermione just a few feet behind, back to him and facing Malfoy. Ron stormed up beside Hermione, fists clenched.

"Better look out, Mudblood," Malfoy drawled. "You never know what superior may be in your path." He spit on Hermione's face and she gasped, letting out a small cry. Ron's eyes blazed, but no one saw his punch coming. Suddenly, Malfoy was doubled over, clutching his stomach, and Ron was straightening back up, a triumphant smile on his face.

"Better look out, Malfoy," he sneered. "Never know who's gonna be there to catch your tongue."

Malfoy swiped with his long fingers at Ron's face and cut him in several lines under his chin. Crabbe and Goyle grunted and heaved themselves in Ron's general direction. Crabbe caught Ron by the arms, but Ron got away by kicking him in the stomach. Ron yelled and lunged at Malfoy, but was struck back by an "_Expelliarmus_!"

Percy, dark and brooding, stepped up to the scene. He glared at Malfoy with deep loathing, then shook his head scoldingly at his younger brother.

"At this time," he said scathingly, "I do not have the power to punish either of you. However," he directed his glare fiercely toward Malfoy, "When I do, I will be watching closely for any type of misbehaviour, and I will distribute the maximum extent of punishment for every crime. You are _prefects._ So behave." He sighed and stepped over Ron and Malfoy.

Ron pushed himself quickly to his feet and walked over to Harry and Hermione, who was still passing a tissue over her perfectly clean and dry cheek.

"You all right?" He said, and Harry watched his face soften slightly.

She didn't look up, but nodded briskly and said, "I don't suppose we have to go to the prefects' compartment this year."

Together, they returned to their compartment. Harry sat next to Ron, who was looking gloomily out the window. Hermione sat opposite Ron, glaring intensely at him. Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing from one to the other.

Ron looked from the window to Hermione, and saw her glare. "What?" He growled.

"You know perfectly well what!" Hermione snapped back. "I can't believe you, getting into a fight with Malfoy in the middle of the train like that!"

"What, and let him insult you! What would you have done, just stood there and taken it? I thought you were strong, Hermione." Ron turned back to the window, fuming.

"I never said what you did was a bad thing," Hermione murmured. She looked down at her hands. Ron looked up sharply from the window, and his expression softened again.

After a few silent minutes, Harry tentatively suggested a chess game, to which Ron eagerly accepted. They were still playing fifteen minutes later when the food trolley stopped at their door.

"Check," Ron said calmly, moving his bishop forward and to the left.

Harry frowned and moved his king to the right. Ron moved his king's side castle one space forward.

"Ha!" Harry said. "Your queen's next!" He moved his knight in position to take Ron's queen, which had no other move except into the path of either his castle or his bishop. The bishop shouted something about the taste of blood and victory in its little voice. Harry looked at Ron. Ron's eye had caught the chess gleam, and Harry saw his strategy fail. Ron moved his queen's side castle to Harry's knight. The castle quickly and effectively pounded the knight into unconsciousness, then turned toward Harry's king.

"Checkmate!" Ron exclaimed. Harry's king surrendered his miniscule sword, then fainted in a ripple of small, white stone robes. Ron's pieces cheered and stomped in the centre of the board as Harry's dejectedly gathered their injured and hobbled toward their box.

"How do you do that? Here, I didn't even think you were paying attention." Harry shook his head, then said, "Three chocolate frogs, a pumpkin cake, and an Every Flavour Beans," to the woman impatiently tapping her foot against her trolley.

"A chocolate frog," Hermione spoke up from behind a large volume titled "Mind Control and How it Can Boost Your Sales - Small Business Edition", handing over a Knut. Ron looked up at the woman as she handed Harry and Hermione their food, but said nothing.

"You better change, love," The woman said to Harry. "Your friends, too. We're almost there." She skated off with her trolley, screeching to a halt at the next door.


	5. 5

Chapter 5 - The Secret Library

Dear Viktor,

I really am sorry to be writing you this letter, but I'm afraid I won't be coming to Bulgaria to see you. The truth is, I don't feel the same way about you that I used to. I think you're a wonderful person, and you'll make someone very happy some day. But it isn't me, and it isn't now. I apologise for doing this to you through owl, but I can't think of any other way to tell you. I hope you can forgive me and that we can remain friends.

Sincerely,

Hermione

Harry stepped out of the light drizzle outside and into the Great Hall. He breathed in the familiar smell of Hogwarts and looked at the thousands of candles hovering around the tables. He finally felt home, safe, and secure, inside the school's protective walls and within earshot of all his closest friends.

Hermione's sharp intake of breath startled Harry back into his present surroundings. He noticed a tall figure walking past them and coming nearer. Just before the person overtook them, Harry realised it was not one person, but two, and they happened to be Oliver and Viktor Krum.

Oliver stepped right up to them. "Ron! Harry! How was the train? Bet you didn't expect to see me here, did you? Oh by the way, this here's Viktor Krum. On the Bulgarian team."

"We'd noticed," Ron snarled in an undertone. Viktor, however, did not seem to notice. He stepped up to Hermione, who was staring at her feet. She looked up for a brief moment to kind of squeak an "Oh! Viktor! Hello."

"Ve need to talk," He said solemnly, and turned away from her.

She walked away with him, still looking at her feet. Ron glared after them, but Oliver didn't seem to notice. He began talking about the next Quidditch season and how he was going to get to help with the Gryffindor tryouts.

They meandered in the general direction of the Great Hall, but had only gotten halfway there when Hermione came walking briskly out of the large open doorway, head down and shoulders pulled forward in what seemed to be some attempt to protect herself. She pushed past the group with barely a chin tilt in acknowledgement. Ron, however, reached out and stopped her with the crook of his right arm. He held her by the arms and turned her toward him, bending his neck down toward her, head tilted slightly, trying to look into her face. He wore a worried expression. She looked up, and Harry saw why she had kept her eyes on the floor: her eyes were brimming with tears. She looked down again quickly, and then leaned into Ron, shoulders beginning to shake. His eyes doubled in size, and a blushing pink spread from his ears to his cheeks as he nervously patted her on the back.

He motioned for Harry to come with him, and then led Hermione into an empty corner. They sat facing her, waiting for her to look up or say something, of which she eventually did both.

She rubbed her eyes furiously with her hands, and sniffled a low, "I'm sorry... I don't know..."

Ron looked up furiously. "Did Krum do this?" He said in a low, wavering growl.

She nodded, but then looked up, alarmed, and said, "Oh, no, it isn't his fault. It's... well, I suppose it's mine."

Ron, with a nudge from Harry, stopped grinding his knuckles into his open palm. Harry put his hand on Hermione's shoulder reassuringly and said, "It's all right," in a way that he hoped was convincing. He could tell that Ron was hoping for at least a little bit of explanation, which Harry had already guessed at. However, Ron wouldn't get his wish, because Hermione promptly dried her tears and stood up, saying, "Well, I'm better now, and we'd better get going before we miss the Sorting." With that, she breezed past the two of them and into the Great Hall right behind Oliver, who had conveniently waited by the doorway to catch a glimpse of what had been said. Ron looked at Hermione, then back to Harry, an expression of complete confusion on his face. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and followed Hermione's path with Harry, though they went much more slowly to give her space.

When they entered the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat had only three more students in line. They sat down, Harry by Hermione and Ron between Harry and Ginny, who was chatting animatedly with Dean, who was enthralled by what she said only because she was the person saying it. When the Sorting Hat had finished the last student (Wallace, Matthew -- Ravenclaw!), Professor Dumbledore stood up and motioned for silence, which he immediately received from the already quiet hall.

"As you all no doubt know," he began, "Voldemort has indeed returned." A murmur echoed through the Hall. "Many of his Death Eaters," Dumbledore continued, "have returned to him, and there have, in the past few days, been reports of attacks just north of Knightsbridge." This news came as a shock; the whole of the student body gasped with alarm and began whispering furiously.

Ron leaned over to Harry. "Mum told me about one of those. Nasty attack, a little old biddy who was feeding her cats, when her house just blew into the sky! She wasn't killed, luckily, but a few of her cats... well..." Hermione gasped and looked worriedly toward the Gryffindor Tower.

"Anyway," Ron continued, "Right before the Aurors came, the old bat swears she saw a hooded, masked person disappear. So Dad says --" but he stopped speaking suddenly when Dumbledore resumed his speech.

"However," he continued to the quickly silenced crowd, "I assure you that you are safe at the school. Every possible precaution has been taken to protect the students and staff at Hogwarts. As long as the school stands together, as a family..." he paused, looking at the determined faces, "as an army... we will succeed. We will triumph." A thousand heads nodded silently.

"On a lighter note, we have added new staff to our ranks. Though they could not be here this evening due to an urgent meeting, I'm sure many of you will soon meet them." He winked at Ron. "Also," he continued, "we will be holding a Yule Ball again this year in order to, well, lighten up the year a bit, and to help support the Purple African Fire Breathing Rabbit Refuge. Hogsmeade trips will also be open to all third years and above. Thank you, and that is all."

Dumbledore settled into his chair, and a sudden burst of noise filled the Hall. "Professor," Professor McGonagall turned to Dumbledore, "Have they..."

"Yes," he nodded. It should be almost complete now. I believe we have chosen wisely; they seem to be accepting their hosts readily."

After dinner, the Head Boys and Girls of each house signaled for their houses to stand, and they began to file out of the Hall. A large shuffle and line shifting was made, mostly by the first years, and many seventh years glared, some doing so much as to shove them back in their places in line. Harry was at the beginning of the line, chatting to Andrew Kirke and Jack Sloper about the impending Quidditch try-outs.

Hermione turned to Ron. "Do you think Professor Dumbledore is doing anything to protect Harry? You know, since what happened last year?"

Ron stood silently for a moment, then said abruptly, "Hermione, I have to go take care of something. I'll be back in the Common Room later, alright?"

"Okay..." she consented uncertainly, "but don't get yourself into any trouble."

He turned and shoved his way through the crowd, earning many more than one rude comment or gesture. He pushed through a side door that lead to a dank hallway. He walked brusquely through it, then found the hall he was looking for. Dumbledore was walking down that hallway toward a stone gargoyle.

"Professor Dumbledore," Ron gasped, "wait!" Dumbledore turned around and smiled inquisitively at him. "I've something I need to talk to you about," Ron said, trying to calm his ragged breathing.

"Should we step into my office?" Dumbledore asked. "Ah, yes," he answered himself, searching Ron's face, "I suppose we should, if it is of that importance. Fizzing Whizbees," he murmured to the gargoyle, which sprang to life and leaped to the side, revealing a large, slowly revolving staircase. Ron looked curiously, though he had seen one before. He stepped onto it, a few steps below Dumbledore, and after the fist turn, thanked his stars that he had developed a strong stomach. They reached the top, and Ron gasped at the most gadget-filled room he had ever seen. However, Dumbledore, motioned curtly for Ron to follow him to a thick, heavily bolted door.

He held his finger to a nail on one of the locks and muttered, "_Subsentio quemadmodum oris nunquam amoveo_." He then moved his finger to touch the keyhole on the smaller lock. "_Paene_," he said, and the door creaked open. He pushed the heavy door and went into the dark room. Ron followed him. The air around him weighed thickly on Ron's arms and eyelids. The room was lit only by the dying light from behind the closing door. Dumbledore sparked a pale blue light onto the wick of a short, melted candle with his wand, and Ron looked around the room. The ceiling vaulted into a high black nothing. Up to the line of visibility loomed large, withering books; row upon row of leather and metal bound tomes, ancient words forgotten by all but the select few.

Dumbledore stepped to the books and stated in a serious voice, "Am I right Mr. Weasley, in assuming you are looking for something of a spell or charm in which you could protect Harry?" He did not look back to see Ron nod, dumfounded. Dumbledore pulled down a relatively thin blue book and opened it on the small ledge-like table. "Now, if I remember correctly... Aha! Here it is!" He turned to the back of the book, to a page written completely in Latin, in a scrawling, illegible hand.

Dumbledore looked up at Ron, eyes wide and drilling into Ron's own. "Do you understand, Mr. Weasley," he began solemnly, "The immense importance of the task you have chosen to accept?" Ron nodded silently. "And of the ramifications of every action you make, every choice you take, if you should move or choose wrongly?" Ron nodded again, uncertainly. The cold from the stone walls was creeping slowly under his skin.

"Ronald," Dumbledore looked again at him, "Are you sure that you --"

"Professor," Ron cut in, "Harry's my best friend. He could be in real danger this year. He can't get hurt. I don't care what it takes on my part."

Dumbledore nodded, satisfied. "You have a strong heart, Mr. Weasley. That's good, because this, as I recall, is a particularly unstable spell. Do you read Latin?"

"No, sorry sir," Ron muttered, rubbing his arms in a futile attempt to regain his warmth.

"The name of the spell is Vitualamen. It means sacrifice, or offering. The spell is very simplistic at its roots: Any physical ailment or pain to the veil is directly translated to the anchor." He was murmuring, almost to himself, and Ron didn't understand a bit of it. Dumbledore looked up, suddenly acknowledged him, and said, "In basic terms, it means that any physical injury the veil, or Harry in this case, would receive would be relayed directly to you. It's a very dangerous situation, however, as the sets seem to be hooked directly to the human emotions, as opposed to something more stable. Well, wizards back then didn't have the technology we do now, I suppose. Ron," he said, "You aren't... courting anyone, are you?"

"Excuse me, Professor?" Ron asked, confused.

"Courting, you know... oh, what do they call it nowadays... dating?" Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, that's the one. Are you... dating... anyone?"

"Not at the moment," Ron shifted uncomfortably, blushing.

"Good." Dumbledore nodded again. "Keep it that way. The wizard thinking up this spell has set an escape route, apparently, which means he probably had to use the spell for himself. Anyway, what it means to you is, no display of any romantic feelings. To say it in short, no kissing."

"Um," Ron stuttered, shivering from the cold, "Sir, do you mind if I ask why?"

"The escape route, something often found in the more complex spells, is that of romantic love. A kiss would transfer some of Harry's pain to that person. However, instead of the pain attacking the escape's physical form, it would directly attack the soul of both the escape and the anchor. Meaning," he glanced at Ron, "whomever you may choose to woo and yourself, respectively. And trust me, Mr. Weasley, souls are not things so easily repaired by medicine. Souls must return of their own free will, and once most get a taste of the Summerland, they never want to return."

"I understand, Sir -- I'll do it," Ron said, setting his teeth determinedly.

"Alright. I might give you some positive news, though -- it seems that, should nothing fail, your physical body will not die, though something such as betrayal could cause the soul to die. Well, anyway," Dumbledore straightened up, smiling, "If you're sure, we should begin."

Ron nodded.

"Very well. The first stage is an absorption process. If your body does not reject the treatment in a week, we'll be safe to continue to the next step. So, here we go." He conjured three candles in a triangle around Ron. Their small lights each glowed a different colour: one red, one purple, and one blue. Dumbledore turned the page of the book and began to read.

"_Annuo fabela absorbeo repino_." Suddenly, Ron's eyes flashed past the room, the school, and into a small, blurred memory. A flash of green. A scream. A blinding pain.

"_Agmen intus corpus sanctus_." Another memory. A chamber. Fire. Red stone, a mirror, yards of purple cloth - a hideous, greedy pair of eyes. Such red, bloodshot eyes.

"_Licet is ea id instruo sanctus_," gravestones. The stench of death. A terrible fear filled him. Looming cloaks. The eyes, and the blood, burned an afterimage on his eyelids.

Dumbledore grabbed Ron's hand. His head was lolling back on his shoulders, eyes wide open, irises hidden in his skull. Dumbledore dipped the small athame in each of the three candles. He then raised the blade to Ron's pale palm. As he traced the small curved line in the white skin, the beams of light centred on the thin blood lingering in the wound. He stepped back, and resumed his post behind the large volume. _"Requiro viaticus de vitualamen, piaculum!" _he finished. The candles flared and went out. Ron fell, unconscious, to the floor. Dumbledore dragged him away from the candles and propped his back against the table.

A few minutes later, Ron's eyes opened tentatively. "Is it... done?" He asked in a shaky voice.

"The first stage, yes." Dumbledore replied calmly. "You will most likely have many varying symptoms, from common sickness to periods of unconsciousness. However, if your fingernails turn dark purple, come immediately to me. Other than that, you're free to go. See you again about this time next week?"

Ron nodded and headed for the door. At the handle, he turned. "Harry's memories... that's what I have now?" Dumbledore nodded. "I feel like..." he shifted, "like I've lost some of them."

"That's expected," Dumbledore smiled. "They will return to your conscious within the week. Oh, and Ron?" Ron turned to look at Dumbledore as he opened the door. "You can't tell anyone about this, or the spell will break. And you're very brave," he added, eyes twinkling as he opened another book. "I'm glad Harry has friends such as yourself."

Ron nodded to himself and stepped out of the doorway, closing the door behind him. He looked at his right palm, into which a design of curved lines had been recently etched. He pressed his fingers onto it and pulled down the sleeve of his robe, hoping that no one would notice the blood on his hand.


	6. 6

Chapter 6 - Return to the Hospital Wing

The darkness claws at my eyes, it consumes me. I fear it will swallow me. It will take my task - it will take it to destroy! No. I can't let it. If I just hold it off a little longer...

Hermione watched the last embers of the Common Room fire dwindle. Her arms were folded on the table in front of her, and had served as her pillow for the last three hours. She sighed, exasperated -- she needed to talk to Ron.

'Why _do_ I need to talk to Ron?' she thought, shifting her head from one arm to the other. 'Well, I'd really like to know what took him... is _taking_ him... so long, but I doubt he'll just out and tell me... why _has_ he been gone so long? I probably shouldn't have waited for him, he might get the wrong idea... might think I -- not that I do, of course, but he might get the wrong idea... I don't... do I?'

She was shaken out of her thoughts when suddenly the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, and a tired, ragged Ron staggered into the room. He was clutching his right hand into a fist, and was smudged and dusty from head to foot.

Hermione stood up quickly. "Ron," she exclaimed, "What happened? Where did you go?" She looked at him, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw the concern he'd been showing all day in his eyes. Then he scowled and turned his face away, glancing up the staircase.

"Hermione, what are you doing down here?" He said in as condescending of a tone as he could manage.

Hermione's anger flared up in her. "I was _waiting_ for you, Ron Weasley, because you said you'd be _back soon_. Of course, _soon _was TWO HOURS ago. You know, when there were still people in the Common Room? But me, silly me, I thought it would be a good thing to wait for you, like the good friend I am. So sor-_ry_ for trying to be a nice person. Good _night_," she yelled, and stormed past him, almost knocking him over, and up the staircase to her dorm.

He sighed. He'd done exactly what he'd set out to accomplish: to pick a fight with Hermione in order to put distance between them. But instead of feeling triumphant, he felt horrible. It was a relatively new feeling for him when it came to fighting with Hermione. Usually he felt enraged, yet empowered. Now he just felt like a terrible person. He walked over to the maroon couch and sank into its deep cushions, and stayed there, watching the embers of the fire fade to a smoky black.

After the fire let its last light waver and fail, Ron made his way up to his room. He silently opened the heavy oak door, then eased it back into its frame behind him. He tiptoed past a softly snoring Neville to his own bed. A board creaked softly under his foot, and Harry sat straight up in his bed, eyes wide, looking straight at Ron.

"Harry?" Ron whispered, and Harry let out a shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping forward.

"Ron, you scared me! What are you doing awake so bloody late?" Harry yawned, his half-closed eyes glinting emerald in the pale moonlight.

Ron sat on his bed and tugged at the laces on his shoes. "I had to..." he paused, remembering Professor Dumbledore's warning. "Send an owl home to Mum. She's having kittens over us even being at school," he finished, kicking off his socks and hoping that Harry would believe him. He did, and sunk back into his bed, mumbling a goodnight. Ron pulled off his trousers and threw them in the beginning of the year's laundry heap, and replaced them with pyjama pants. He hung his tie on the chair next to his bed and added his jumper and button down shirt to the pile of worn clothes. Pulling an old Quidditch shirt on, he sank into his bed and let the day's exhaustion lull him into a dreamless sleep.

Breakfast the next morning was painfully tense and silent, not only between Ron and Hermione, but throughout the Great Hall. Harry was staring quietly into his pumpkin juice. Ron pushed his food around his plate with a fork absentmindedly, and Hermione glared at the pages of a large volume she had propped up against the edge of the table.

"So..." Ron began timidly, trying to break the silence, "So. Who do you think's going to be Defence against the Dark Arts teacher this year?"

Harry looked up and shrugged listlessly. "I don't know. I want to get through today as quickly as possible. I want to get to this afternoon. Quidditch tryouts."

"We've already got almost all the players, why do we need tryouts?" Ron grumbled.

"Because," Harry explained, "I'm making everyone from last year try out again." What Harry did not mention was that he wanted to make everyone tryout again because, as Quidditch captain this year, he really didn't want anything messing it up. And he was afraid Ron would mess things up. He hadn't seen him play since the year before, but he was still more than sceptical, even though Ron _had_ been training extensively with Oliver.

Hermione looked up with a face of ill-disguised concern, but Ron missed it, concentrating instead on cutting his toast into small pieces with his fork.

"Ron," Neville asked, looking down the table at him, "You all right? You look as if someone's poisoned your socks."

"Really, Ron," Dean tried to reassure him, "I'm trying out too. As a Chaser, of course, but Keeper's not any more dangerous, and you've already tried out once, so you should be fine. You're not going to die out there... unless, of course, your broom flies out of control, you fly right into one of the bleeding goal posts, and someone throws the Quaffle straight at your face."

"Thanks a lot, Dean," Ron moaned, dropping his head onto the table.

"Good luck, man," Seamus said.

"Oh, we've got to get to Herbology," Harry announced, and Ron picked himself up. Hermione swept past Ron and Harry in a huff and stormed to the greenhouses. Harry and Ron walked slowly after her, neither one saying much of anything. They were just in time for class, followed by four or five late students, all of who received sharp looks from Professor Sprout. She looked back to the workbenches and announced to the class, "Welcome back. Congratulations, all of you. You have made it into an N.E.W.T. preparation class, which means you're very adept at Herbology. This will be a very rigorous course, as the N.E.W.T.s are next year, and yes, you _will_ need to start worrying about them this early in this year."

Many people in the class groaned. "Why'd she look at me when she said that?" Ron whispered to Harry. Hermione glared at him, and he looked at the ground, silenced.

"Now, we are going to begin with a little biology, a study of what separates normal plants from magical ones, besides the obvious characteristics. Take out your notes," Professor Sprout raised her voice above the grumbling. Everyone pulled out parchment and quills. Ron leaned toward his bag to reach his and a sharp pain shot through his head, followed by an intense throbbing. He took out his parchment and quill, set them on his desk, and put his hands to his temples.

"Now, we will start with the basic anatomy of a strictly non-magical plant. It gathers its energy from the sunlight, through a process called photosynthesis, write that down, as opposed to the way magical plants get theirs, the process of asynthesis."

Ron leaned toward his parchment, reeling with pain. His brain felt as though it was slamming itself into the walls of his skull. Hermione repeatedly looked over at him, huffed, and turned sharply back to the lecture. Harry looked at his friend.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Ron nodded slightly. Black was creeping into the corners of his eyes, and the muscles in his body were ceasing to hold him up, though his nerves were screaming to them to keep functioning.

"Asynthesis, a much more reliable process, is one in which the plant gathers energy from the dark in which its roots are placed. Though this places more stress on the lifespan of the moving plants... Mr. Weasley, if you cannot sit up straight and begin to take notes, then-" Professor Sprout was cut off when Ron slumped, then fell off his stool with a clatter.

The class gasped and stood up as a whole. Harry quickly kneeled down and tried to wake Ron up. He was laying still, eyes rolled into the back of his head, shuddering slightly. Harry grabbed him under the arms and moved him away from the tall stools. The class took a step back and began whispering excitedly amongst themselves.

"I'll bet he's been experimenting with some obscure charm," a Hufflepuff girlwhispered to her friend, who nodded fervently. "Or maybe he's a dark wizard, and -" She stopped quickly at a scathing look from Hermione, who then joined Harry in trying to help Ron. Professor Sprout, who had bolted from the room immediately, returned with Madame Pomfrey, who shouted, "Clear away, clear... CLEAR AWAY!"

Startled several students moved aside to make a wide pathway for her. She ran in, took one look at Ron, and immediately conjured a stretcher. Once he was on it, she looked at the students.

"Harry, Hermione, come with me. The rest of you, go back to your work. No one's dead." She stormed out of the room, stretcher in front of her, at an alarming rate. Harry and Hermione ran down the halls after her. She turned sharply into the infirmary and left the doorway swinging open for them to follow. When they finally reached to door and went in, Ron was in a bed, and Madame Pomfrey was hovering over him. Professor Dumbledore walked swiftly in and to her, saying, "Madame, I believe this is a special case. If you will allow me to explain?"

She looked at him sharply, then said, "In my office." They stepped briefly into her office, a windowed addition to the large room. When they stepped back out, Madame Pomfrey was shaking her head. "Professor," she said, "He's only a teenager! Do you really think his body could handle a..." She looked at Harry and Hermione, who were sitting tentatively in chairs in the entryway, "a- something like that?"

"That is exactly what I believe, Madame. Now, I suggest the best thing for him is to let him simply wake up, as he should do soon, and he will be perfectly fine, unless his fingernails turn purple. Then contact me."

"Of course, Professor, I understand completely. I'll keep an eye on him."

Professor Dumbledore smiled, then turned and walked calmly out. Madame Pomfrey walked briskly to Harry and Hermione, and said, "You will not go to his bed until he wakes up. Hear?" They nodded.

Harry looked out the window. It seemed about midday, a few hours after Herbology, yet no teachers had come in to tell him or Hermione to get to class. More surprisingly, Hermione didn't seem to care at all about having missed two classes. She was wringing her hands silently and glancing from the window, to her feet, to Ron's motionless bed, back to her feet again. Harry himself was trying desperately to keep his mind occupied. A fly he had been watching intently was beating itself against the windows, but it was beginning to lose his attention.

Percy rushed in suddenly, out of breath and dishevelled. "Where is he?" he shouted. He turned and noticed, for the first time, Harry and Hermione sitting in the waiting chairs. He threw a leery glance at Harry, then said, "Hermione, what happened? I came as soon as possible... oh, no, my little brother..." he buried his face in his hands. "I was supposed to protect him," the muffled voice filtered miserably through his fingers. "This is my fault..."

Hermione stood up tentatively and said, " Percy, it was nobody's fault. He's only fainted. He was in Herbology. He was nervous about Quidditch tryouts this morning, so he didn't eat anything. Maybe--"

Harry was cut off by Ginny running into the room.

"Is he all right?" Ginny asked, concerned.

Harry heard rustling noises and looked over at Ron's bed. Ron was awake and pushing himself into a sitting position. Percy ran to his bed, and began fussing frantically, "Ron, are you all right! What's your temperature? Are you-"

"Perce, I'm fine," Ron interrupted him raspily. He put his hand to his throat. "God, I need a throat lozenge," he croaked. Hermione, who was at the other side of his bed, quickly handed him a glass of water. He drank it in one gulp, then said, "Cheers," apprehensively.

"What happened?" asked Harry from the foot of the bed.

"I..." Ron paused, "I dunno, I just didn't have enough this morning to eat, I guess."

"Right," Ginny rolled her eyes. "Just trying to get out of Quidditch, were you?"

"Quidditch? Absolutely NOT!" Madame Pomfrey's shrill voice reverberated in the small hospital wing.

"What?" cried Ginny indignantly.

"You're joking!" Harry argued, and Madame Pomfrey fixed a glare on him that told him plainly that she was far from it.

"Do you want him fainting out of the sky?" Madame Pomfrey scolded.

"Really, Madame Pomfrey," Ron pleaded, "I feel fine. Nothing else will happen today. I promise. Nothing." He looked straight at her, and to everyone's immense surprise, she gave in.

"Well, if you're sure then, I see no reason to hold you back. Go ahead, and good luck."

When no one moved, she said briskly, "Weasley, there are other students who need these beds!" nodding to an unfortunate second year who was spouting blue smoke from her nose and fingertips. "Go!"

Harry and Ginny helped Ron, who was still in his school robes, out of his bed. He slipped his feet into his trainers, which were at the side of his bed.

"Neville brought your things from Herbology," Hermione said, holding Ron's bag out to him.

"Cheers," Ron said again, smiling, apparently very relieved at this second sign of approval. He suddenly dropped his shoulders and smile and said to Harry, "'s it almost lunch? I'm starved."


	7. 7

Chapter 7 - Pre trial

You see, diary, it is completely irrational, what he's doing to me. One moment, he's very civilized, sweet even, and the next... an absolute barbarian jerk. One moment, I feel like he understands me perfectly, without me even saying anything, and the next, I can't even imagine we were born on the same planet. And I know I complained about this last year, but it's really much worse and much more spontaneous this year. What am I to do?

Much love,

Hermione

Gregory Goyle was sitting in the hallway to the Slytherin boys' dorms, pretending to read a book and watching intently for Pansy Parkinson. The door to his dorm room was shut, and Draco's green and silver tie was hanging from the doorknob.

Suddenly, Pansy came round the corner. Goyle stuttered as he tried to remember the signal. She paused and looked at his book.

"What are you reading?" She scowled. " It's upside down."

"Uh," He grunted, dawning on the signal, "uh... hoot. Hoot hoot hoot. Hoot, hoot."

"What..." she looked at Draco's door. "Is Draco in there!" She ran to the door and had brought her hand up to pound when it glided open, and Draco was leaning easily against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, fully clothed but for his tie, Pansy's fist inches from his face.

"Let me help you with that," he grinned slyly and knocked Pansy's hand out of the air, at the same time pulling his tie deftly off the doorknob, twisting it around his hand. A girl ran out of the room, wearing a dishevelled white shirt and clutching jumper and yellow tie to her chest. Pansy tried to snatch her, but she was out of the corridor long before Pansy could have caught up. Pansy turned back to the door and glared at Draco.

"What," she growled, "was that?"

Draco smirked. "Sorry about that. If someone," he looked pointedly at Goyle, "had remembered the signal a bit sooner, we could have avoided that whole scene."

"That's not the point," Pansy said. "What was she doing in your room?"

"Oh, that," Draco rolled his eyes. "Pansy, she was just a bit of fun. She was a bleeding Hufflepuff. Nothing. Nobody. Besides, nothing really happened."

"You sound more like you father every day--"

Draco quickly pulled his hand back and slapped her hard across the cheek. He slammed her against the wall opposite the door. His hand, still holding his tie, gripped the collar of her robes, and she whimpered, her cheek purpling and tears streaming down her face.

"Don't," he snarled, "don't EVER tell me I'm like my father again. EVER! You're lucky you have me, hear? LUCKY!" With the last word, he shoved her into the wall again, let her go, and walked back into his room, Goyle in tow. She slid down the wall, and was left crying alone in the empty hall.

Harry fastened the arm guards of his Quidditch robes and kicked his bag under the bench. He smiled at Ginny, who smiled back and walked to the bench, throwing her bag to the floor and pulling her grey jumper off over her head. Harry walked out of the changing room and onto the pitch. He rubbed his eyes, wishing that he didn't have to do this. He knew Ginny was a good Chaser. He'd seen her play. He had also seen Ron be Keeper. He didn't want to have to can his best friend, but he didn't want to jeopardise the Cup, either.

Andrew Kirke and Jack Sloper were hitting a Bludger around with clubs, playing better than they had last year, which lifted Harry's spirit a little. Madame Hooch was standing next to Oliver, pointing at her whistle, which he was holding excitedly in his hand. He put it to his lips and blasted a shriek out of it that shook everyone. Harry dropped his broom, Madame Hooch dropped the Quaffle, and Andrew allowed a Bludger to hit his shoulder and flip him upside down before he had time to register the attack.

"Blimey, sorry about that," Oliver shouted across the pitch. Dean, smiling, walked onto the pitch and mounted his broom, kicking himself up into the air. Ginny and Ron followed him. Ginny looked relatively calm, but Ron was pale, though not as disoriented as last year. A tall, thin blonde girl followed them up and glared at Dean, who had been looking at her from the corner of his eye.

Harry kicked off, and found himself surrounded by the players. "Erm, right," he said. He hadn't expected this to make him so nervous. "As everybody knows, this isn't an official tryout, but if you do well enough, then I'm going to hold the tryouts on Friday for reserve positions only. Glad to see familiar faces, as well as new ones," he smiled at the blonde girl, who looked at him as though she had nothing better to do. "Dean Thomas, and..."

"Natalie Fenwick," she said. Her voice had the same scratchy quality of dry parchment.

Harry searched his brain. Why did Fenwick sound familiar? He dropped it quickly, though, and said, "Well, since you've all warmed up, we're going to run some plays. Ron, to the goalposts. Dean, Natalie, go - you're the Chasers. Andrew, Jack, you can let the Bludgers go, and then deal with them. You know." Harry waited until Ron was out of earshot, then said to Dean and Natalie, and said, "a McMannon double loop back, you know what that is?" They nodded.

Natalie took the Quaffle under her left arm and flew straight toward the left goal. Ron was watching her intently, doing absolutely nothing. Harry wanted to bury his face in his hands. Ron was just going to let her by. Beside him, Harry heard Ginny mutter, "Come on, Ron, come on... move... don't freeze, mooove..."

Natalie soared toward him unhindered. Suddenly, Ron zoomed right in front of the goal post at which she was aiming. Startled, she veered left to avoid hitting him and dropped the Quaffle. Ron dipped down, caught it, and threw it to Dean.

"Erm...again. Ginny, get in there, Natalie out," Harry called out hesitantly. He was shocked. Ron had improved beyond recognition. Dean and Ginny were at the other end of the pitch, whispering and pointing furiously. Ron watched them briefly, then gave him broom a bit of a right lean.

Dean took the Quaffle and flew toward the middle goal post. Ginny went beside the left goal and waited. Dean began zigzagging, and Ron mimicked his movements. Left, right, left, right, left, and then Dean dove under him. He went around to the right goal. Ron stretched his arm to the Quaffle, blocking it just in time. Dean tossed the Quaffle to Ginny by the left post, but Ron was there almost before she had caught the ball. She stopped for a second, then threw it to Dean at the right goalpost. Ron turned sharply and flew to the right post. He arrived just in time to knock the Quaffle away from the goal with an outstretched hand. Ginny took the ball and threw it through the middle goalpost before Ron had time to turn around.

The team was gathered in the dressing rooms after tryouts. "As you know," Harry said, "this was scheduled before actual tryouts, which means there will be a stampede of second and third years wanting to come out here on Friday, because there are official Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts." Everyone looked around the room, disappointed. "Unfortunately for them," Harry smiled, "I've already got my team." With that, the changing room erupted with cheers.


End file.
